


Just Transport

by kinklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (or so I hope), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Humor, Love at First Sight, M/M, Pining Sherlock, but the happy kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/pseuds/kinklock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock deduces a very interesting man on the tube one day, and starts to take public transport more often. Which is, of course, just a coincidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Transport

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Просто транспорт](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7484280) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> get ready for Peak Sherlock antics. Many thanks to [ conductor_of_light ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/conductor_of_light/works) for being such an amazing beta !

Sherlock despises the tube.

As someone who relies heavily on interpreting various forms of sensory input - noises, smells, and visuals (namely _people_ ) - a packed, moving train is overpoweringly unpleasant. Travelling by tube always involves digesting large amounts of data of no particular use or interest to him for an extended period of time and against his will. The worst part especially being _the people_ – invading his personal space, perspiring, _speaking_. Not to mention every jerky movement of the car jostling all passengers into one another, forcing him to touch other people. Was there anything more undignified than public transport?

But none of the cabs would take him (apparently splattered sheep embryos didn’t come out of upholstery), and so he is pressed into the hot crush of the masses. Worse than that, he is now entirely out of experiments and bored. Bored, bored, bored. Sometimes not smoking is so very hard. Not getting high, even harder. Time to be distracted.

The man holding the overhead handle to his left, exposing his armpit and its sweat stains (not to mention _the smell_ ): accountant, late for work again, the sixth – no, seventh – time in the last month. This time because one of his kids was sick, previous tardiness however had all been due to meeting with sex workers at cheap motels and falling asleep by accident (amateur) –

The woman on his right with her nose in a book: one – no, two – cats, works as a bank teller, just broke up with her boyfriend, her makeup is still slightly smudged from the crying, she’s highly considering getting another a cat –

His deductions derail when Sherlock’s attention refocuses on a man standing almost directly behind him. He can just see him through the reflection in the dark glass. Straight back, stiff posture, clean haircut, tan that doesn’t go past his wrists – a military man then.

Afghanistan or Iraq? Despite his prowess, that’s not a distinction Sherlock can make. The man uses a cane, but when the train stops and starts unexpectedly he is able to lean on his bad leg. He also chooses to stand instead of sit - he’s resentful of the injury, and it goes away when he is distracted. Psychosomatic? Interesting. Injured, back from overseas, but now heading to work via public transport. What would an injured ex-army man be doing for work? The edge of a journal is peeking out from the top of his bag, just enough for Sherlock to make out a medical journal. A doctor then. An ex-army doctor.

The most interesting person on the train, Sherlock concludes. To be fair this man would be the most interesting person in any train car, any room, as a war hero with a psychosomatic leg injury.

Sherlock wants to know whether the man would need his cane when put into a high adrenaline situation. He’d also like to know what the exact colour of his hair is - blond, brown, grey? It’s hard to make out based solely on the reflection in the glass. His eyelashes seem very light.

Can the other man see him looking? No - why would he be looking in the reflection checking to see if anyone was staring at him? The man’s gaze is pointed in the general area of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock suddenly wishes he’d cleaned the embryo off his suit jacket a little more vigorously.

Does it smell? Does _he_ smell? God, what did he look like right now? He swivels his eyes back to his own reflection in the glass while his hands fly to his hair, touching his curls, smoothing them down. Hair still largely in order, a few loose strands – though, why did it matter? He didn’t care what people on the tube thought of him. Or what people in general thought of him. 

The man behind him sighs inaudibly; while silent, Sherlock can still see the tell tale chest movement. He looks as though he hates taking public transport just as much as Sherlock does. He also looks just as bored. Sherlock wonders –

The train comes to a complete and jarring stop and the man limps out of the train, now relying heavily on the cane. Sherlock’s ride immediately returns to its former oppressive boredom, but at least his thoughts can continue spinning around the oddly intriguing man.

+

A trip to Bart’s is in order the following day - as luck would have it, Molly has texted about a delightfully interesting corpse available for his perusal. If he hesitates in hailing a cab and ends up walking to the nearest underground station, well, maybe he’s just thinking about actually paying Mrs Hudson the full rent for this month. If he specifically chooses to be on the train going in the exact same direction at the same time as yesterday, it bears absolutely no significance. He is certainly not holding out any foolish hope of seeing the same man from yesterday.

And if he slides into the last car on the north end of the platform, the same car as yesterday, maybe he just likes that it’s closest to the exit at his destination. Sherlock quickly scans the car, and if his eyes are searching for a short man with ramrod straight posture leaning on a cane, what of it? Studying him had been an enjoyable way to avoid the tedium of transit.

There is no such man on the train. Instead, Sherlock is stuck in between an Albanian woman with excruciating body odour and a bald male stockbroker who is apparently unable to breathe with his mouth closed.

Sherlock is never, ever taking the tube again.

+

He’d said that of course but then rent _is_ tight (he was meant to be finding a roommate and so far no luck there, all the skulls had put the last one off), and he did need to get to another part of the city. If he happened to be arriving at the same time and getting onto the same train, who was to say?

Sherlock casually scans the passengers upon entering the train car. And lo and behold, the unassuming ex-army doctor is across and to the left of him, currently seated and reading a paperback crime thriller.

Was he interested in crime then? Or just trying to pass the time? Those novels were usually highly inaccurate and full of romanticisms and subplots unrelated to the cases. Sherlock wonders if this means the man is romantic. Probably, judging by the particularly dramatic book cover image.

Romantic and a doctor, a soldier doctor, and pleasantly handsome – he must be taken. Did he have a wife? Maybe a husband? No, no, there was no wedding ring on his left hand, stupid to even wonder, and why did it matter?

Did he have a girlfriend then? A boyfriend? Was he interested in women? Or men? Or both? Not enough data.

The train jerks into motion with Sherlock standing dumbly in the entrance, almost getting knocked over. He quickly moves to the other set of doors to lean on, where he still has a good view of the back of the man’s head.

So he likes crime thrillers, or at least has a passing fancy for them. From Sherlock’s vantage point he can see the man has been reading the same part for a long time, occasionally looking away, and then snapping his eyes back to the top of the page. Reading but not processing anything he’s scanning. He’s bored. Very bored. Doesn’t like the adventure stories then?

No, he’s a doctor who chose to go to war – he’s a true thrill seeker. Likes a bit of danger. Likes the danger to be happening to him. And his leg. He misses it. He must miss it terribly. Would he enjoy solving crimes? Not that it mattered.

The Man (as Sherlock begins to refer to him in his mind) is likely left handed, as he naturally favours holding the book in that hand. Sherlock wonders which hand he uses to shoot a gun. Sherlock has a feeling The Man knows his way around a gun.

The Man’s left hand suddenly spasms, causing him to drop his novel. He moves quickly to catch it before it falls, the back of his neck slowly turning red. Intermittent hand tremor. Interesting. He’s embarrassed. And angry too. He’d previously been able to work as an army doctor, but is now forced into general practice at a city clinic. Bored out of his mind at work as well then. Sherlock would be.

It’s The Man’s stop. He stands, leaning on his cane even more than the last time Sherlock saw him, and leaves the train.

As the doors close Sherlock realises this time he hadn’t actually had any destination in mind.

+

His curiosity about The Man on the train starts off like an itch in the back of his throat. The kind of itch that is likely the omen of something worse yet to come, but he’s still well in denial about the oncoming illness. Sherlock never intends to leave the flat for anything below a six, and yet he finds himself compulsively taking the tube every day.

There are no sightings of The Man the next day, or the day after that. Luck, however, does strike on his third consecutive attempt. (Third time’s always the charm). The Man is sitting down again but has clearly given up on the paperback.

When an old woman totters in through the train doors, The Man immediately stands and offers her his seat while supporting himself on his cane. She thanks him but seems obviously conflicted due to his disability. Reading her reluctance makes him embarrassed and short-tempered. The back of his neck reddens under these circumstances. (Sherlock is pleased that he has learned this mannerism).

No one else offers her a chair so The Man feels the duty still falls on his shoulders, and he wants to be able to extend this courtesy. The Man’s entire thought process plays out clearly on his expressive face. The old woman is clever enough to interpret the situation appropriately and take the seat.

Sherlock’s chest feels tight. Maybe it’s due to how much he currently resents the other passengers who wouldn’t stand, even though Sherlock knows he himself would never have been so chivalrous.

Sherlock, feeling brave, moves down the car as nonchalantly as possible. He passes the standing object of his attention with care. 

He discerns The Man’s hair is both blond and grey, and his eyes, which are difficult to see at a distance, are a very dark blue. As previously noted his eyelashes are light, blond, somehow appealing. His lips are thin and he has a regular habit of licking them.

Sherlock wishes he knew his name.

 

+

By their next encounter Sherlock’s curiosity has only grown. The itch to know more about The Man is now more akin to a dry, sore yearning that completely occupies his mind. His interest is festering and spurs him into action. He observes that The Man’s briefcase has two outer pockets. The perfect size for a phone, wallet and possibly an ID badge for work.

The Man is sitting down again and in a stroke of luck the seat directly next to him becomes vacant two stops in. Sherlock slides into place. His leg is inches from pressing up against The Man’s. 

Does he need to stage a distraction? Or does he need one to be made for him?

Fortuitously, and this is truly Sherlock’s lucky day, a lawyer spills his coffee onto the lap of a dental hygienist. The hygienist cries out while the lawyer begins apologizing profusely. While the lawyer is searching for something to help clean the spill, the dental hygienist is huffing in aggravation and a moment away from making a scene. The Man’s head is turned to observe the commotion and Sherlock takes his opportunity to reach down, slide open the pouch, finding flat keys, mobile phone and – yes – an ID badge.

Dr John H. Watson.

What does the H stand for?

He quickly returns the card to the pocket, closes the zipper, and reverts back to his proper seated position. An elderly woman sitting directly across from him is smiling at Sherlock knowingly. She winks at him.

Sherlock isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

+

Sherlock is barely above ground before he’s googling Dr John H. Watson on his mobile. Why did such an interesting person have to have such a common name? 

He eventually finds a blog that is clearly run by the same man based on the picture in the description. Sherlock wonders if his blog might be like Sherlock’s, except of course it isn’t. It’s apparently an exercise inflicted on him by his therapist. John likes to write about how bored he is (Sherlock was right) and then repeat _“Look, Ella, I’m writing”_ pointedly (for his therapist’s benefit, clearly).

Reading, and then re-reading, all the entries takes very little time.

One side of Sherlock’s mouth keeps twitching upwards.

+

“Sherlock dear, you know you don’t have to keep anything from me. Live and let live, that’s what I always say.”

Sherlock had been very absorbed in the eyepiece of his microscope, and has no interest in changing the focus of his attention for his nosy landlady.

“And what exactly am I supposed to be letting live, Mrs Hudson?”

Her tutting can be heard to his right.

“Oh, don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes. I’ve seen you leaving here each morning at the same time, dressed to the nines. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you stealing my hair dryer. Usually we’re lucky if you change into a robe and pajamas! Don’t you think I don’t know what that means,” Mrs Hudson pats his shoulder, clucks her tongue, and leaves behind a plate of biscuits.

“Bring him around some time!” she calls up the stairs. 

Would someone please save him from the misplaced intentions of old ladies?

+

Unfortunately Sherlock’s sickness has clearly only just begun, as he is once again on the same train as John. (Which he can now call him. John, John, John). It’s been several maddening days since he’d managed to see him, and Sherlock feels immediate relief when his eyes fall on the light grey head of hair in the crowd of people. 

He’s wearing an absolutely hideous jumper. To his place of work. This is the kind of man who thinks growing a moustache might look dignified and needs to be told explicitly to never have that thought ever again. (Oh God, what if he grew a moustache?) Sherlock has warring urges to both dress him and encourage him to never change. Women probably overlook him when he dresses like their grandfather. He attracts less attention this way. Otherwise, a veteran doctor? With his looks? He’d be beating them off with a stick.

Maybe he was beating them off regardless. Sherlock searches for the usual signs that John might be seeing someone or be in a relationship. Shirt well ironed but he could be doing that, this wasn’t the dark ages. Shaving cream behind his ear – no then, probably not. He was single. Available.

Sherlock felt hot. Available for what?

He got off the train before John’s stop and waited on the other side of the platform for the train heading back to Baker Street. There had been no reason for him to take the tube today.

+

Sherlock falls into the obsessive habit of checking John’s blog daily. This is largely unfulfilling as John rarely writes anything beyond sarcastic, meaningless posts directed at his therapist which his friends respond to with obvious concern.

_“Ate a bag of crisps today during my break. Salt and vinegar flavoured. Is that the level of detail you were interested in, the kind you suggested I should be bringing to these, Ella?”_

This post is of course followed by the obligatory comments from both Bill Murray ( _“Do you want to get a pint sometime when I’m in town?”_ ) and Harry Watson ( _“God, you’re still an arse John”_ ).

Going for a pint. Boring. John probably wasn’t even really interested in that, hence why he never responded in the comments section. He probably pretended to be interested. He probably pretended to be normal, ordinary, when really his jumpers were hiding something extremely extraordinary. His friends probably resented him, partially due to his disinterest in them, but mainly due to knowing. Knowing he was something else.

Sherlock isn’t sure what he is hoping to eventually read in these posts.

_I saw a man on the tube today…._

“Sherlock love, maybe you should just ask him?” Mrs Hudson has materialised beside him with a tea tray.

“Ask who? Ask him what?” He’s immediately on the defensive. How could she possibly know?

“John H. Watson. You’ve written his name down about a hundred times on that slip of paper. Also I’m not sure if Humbringgard is even a real surname. Unlikely middle name candidate I’d say.”

Sherlock scrambles to cover the paper with his hands, but she’s already caught the word ‘Captain’ he’s written down after reading up on John’s official title.

“Oh Sherlock, a soldier? That’s lovely dear, perfect for you. We both know you don’t keep those military magazines under your bed for case work.”

Sherlock begins to rip the paper to shreds. He wonders if eating the pieces would make Mrs Hudson _go away_. It’s worth a try.

Mrs Hudson only tuts at him. “You know, it’s not unusual to get like this about someone. You’re just a bit of a late bloomer, I’m sure you’ll sort it all out. Have a cuppa.”

Sherlock feels certain that what he is experiencing, or at least doing about the experience, is actually not considered ‘usual’. And he doesn’t want a cuppa.

He imagines John Watson makes a fantastic cuppa.

Mrs Hudson finally seems to get the idea when he starts spitting wet paper balls out at her, and leaves the tray behind.

“You’d better do something Sherlock, before you start writing _Sherlock Watson_ ,” she says giggling away on her hasty departure.

_And what did that mean exactly?_

Sherlock throws a biscuit in her general direction.

+

His interest in John does in fact turn out to be much more like a virus, intent on invading and usurping its host. Sherlock has lost any previous semblance of control and is unable to resist the daily temptation of seeking John out. Sherlock begins to test the limits of his previously careful observation approach, such as how close he can possibly get without being noticed. One time he sits directly across from John. He maintains distance by holding a newspaper in front of his face, which allows him brief glances of the other man when he flips the pages. At one point their eyes meet and Sherlock quickly lifts the newspaper to cover his burning cheeks.

As a rule whenever John looks in his direction, he quickly turns the other way. Unfortunately, this often means he can’t even see John’s reflection in the car windows.

On one occasion, John is standing near the door while Sherlock hovers close. The train abruptly stops and John loses his balance, falling backwards. Sherlock acts swiftly - he catches John’s back with one hand and his cane with the other, holding the other man steady. John’s neck turns slightly pink. Sherlock knows this means anger and/or embarrassment. Likely embarrassment then.

“Thank you,” John murmurs, and this is the first time Sherlock is hearing his voice. He hadn’t known what to imagine, but it is so unexpectedly soft and soothing. He wants to hear it again. Sherlock manages to choke out a quiet “No trouble” before the train begins to move again, and then quickly arrives at John’s stop.

Sherlock watches him exit the car, with his own heart beating quickly. Sherlock catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window where his pupils are the size of saucers. Sherlock has long ago abandoned having a reason for taking the train.

+

“How’s it going with John, then?”

“Nothing is going on with John.”

“Maybe you should change that, dear.”

+

On their next shared train ride Sherlock considers striking up a conversation. For his work he frequently has to approach and speak to strangers to gather information, sometimes manipulating them into giving him what he needs. This would be no different. Except for the fact that he would be himself and not shamming, and he would be talking to Dr John H. Watson, ex-military doctor, who is apparently rather cranky according to his blog. Sherlock eyes the back of his neat blond head, and swallows nervously.

Before he gathers up his courage a voice rings out overhead causing everyone, including Sherlock, to look upwards. The train is apparently now out of service and all passengers have to exit at the next stop to wait for the next one. A nuisance, Sherlock thinks, reminding him why this mode of transport is terrible to begin with. Everyone shuffles out of the train shortly when the doors open, the voice overhead reminding them all to take their belongings. Sherlock keeps a close eye on John while maintaining his usual safe distance.

John stays close to the platform edge while Sherlock moves further back near the wall where he can observe without fear of being noticed. John’s face is truly capable of conveying many different emotions at once – he currently appears to be annoyed and resigned, while also contemplating whether he has enough time to buy a pack of gum from the kiosk further down the platform.

It is likely this contemplation that causes John to be off his usual guard when a teen collides with his back. In the split second that this occurs, Sherlock can deduce the teen’s actions are part of a dare – the result of a group of teenagers snickering off to the side, not fully understanding the possible severity of their suggestion. This collision throws John completely off his balance, made worse by the fact that he had been leaning on his bad leg. To the shock of all onlookers, his fall is completely unimpeded, and he is sent flying off the edge of the platform. At this same moment Sherlock hears the sound of the oncoming train.

Sherlock, who considers himself largely a man of mind rather than action, does not think at all before throwing himself off the side of the platform. He also thinks nothing of grabbing the prostrate man and rolling them both off the tracks into the safety of the overhanging platform edge. Sherlock is distantly aware of shouting coming from above, and that the train is quickly approaching and will soon pass them.

“You’re the hot bloke from my train every morning,” John comments. He is entirely on top of Sherlock and his mouth moves against Sherlock’s neck as he speaks.

“Yes, I mean we do, that is – did you say h-hot?” Sherlock manages to gasp out.

“Yeah,” John says, and it sounds like he’s close to laughing but is restraining himself. “So, do you come here often?”

Sherlock looks up at the underside of the platform and starts to laugh hysterically, shaking John on top of him, who begins to laugh as well.

John has a high, soft giggle that Sherlock finds absolutely endearing. “You know I don’t know much about you, besides you being the hot guy on my train. I’d started thinking of you that way to be honest.”

Sherlock can feel his cheeks flushing bright red at being called hot, not once, but twice by the man he has a sickness for.

“Then we’re at disadvantage. I know far more about you.” Realising that made him sound like a stalker (which maybe wasn’t far off?), he clarifies himself. “I’m a consulting detective. I’ve deduced things about you.”

John’s hairline lowers in surprise and presumably interest. He licks his lips causing his tongue to come in contact with Sherlock’s skin briefly and asks, “A consulting detective? Who do you consult for? And what exactly have you deduced about me?”

“The police, I solve crimes, and I’ve deduced your military service as an army doctor, that your leg injury is psychosomatic, and that you work as a GP. You’re bored with your current life, you’re a romantic –“

“I’m a romantic?” John seems to find this hilarious as it sends him into a fit of chuckling. “You do realise you just jumped onto a train track for me?”

Sherlock is nonplussed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

John laughs wryly, utterly charming. “Haven’t you ever seen old cartoons with the damsel tied up to a railtrack by the baddie, and the hero has to save her? What happened just now - yeah, that’s about the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.” His tone is lighthearted, but he still manages to convey a strong emotion that Sherlock cannot quite place.

It sort of sounded like how you’d speak of. Well. A hero.

“Why did you jump on the track after me?” John questions, much more serious than a moment ago and craning his neck slightly so he can peer down at Sherlock in the dark. Sherlock can barely make out his eyes, which are presumably still very blue.

_To save your life, obviously._

Instead Sherlock hears himself say “I think I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock’s first reaction to his own statement is to wish there was a way to rip up words that left your mouth before they reached anyone’s ears and to chew them up. His second reaction is that while this was not something he had known before now, the events leading up to this moment did suggest this was very much the case. Why was there always one more deduction than he was expecting?

John must think he’s insane - he’s silent, what is he thinking? Why must it be so dark?

John seems momentarily stunned, but eventually responds, “I was going to guess it was maybe a bit of a crush, but clearly you don’t do anything in halves, do you?”

John was smiling against him. Smiling. Was it the good kind of smiling, or the mocking kind of smiling?

John Watson didn’t mock people who were at a clear disadvantage, as Sherlock was in this situation, thus it must be … the good … smiling?

“Those things you observed about me, I’d like to know how you figured them out. I have a feeling it’s brilliant. Also, your voice is deeper than I was expecting.”

To say Sherlock is entirely thrown by this man would be an understatement, but then he had expected him to be extraordinary. He tentatively tests the waters. “I understand that what I just said could be considered by most, well, a bit not good.”

Sherlock is actively holding his breath for an answer, which is a difficult thing to do with the object of his affections lying on top of him.

“Finding out that the guy you’ve been daydreaming about for weeks feels the same way isn’t the kind of gift horse I’m about to look in the mouth,” John responds, sliding his grinning mouth higher along Sherlock’s neck.

There is a warm sensation spreading out from where John’s lips are pressed against him that travels through all his limbs, likely a form of fever related to his love illness. Sherlock realises that the train is now moving again and they will probably need to reappear from underneath the platform edge.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks. 

“Dinner? It’s 9am.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says.

“I’d love to,” John replies, a hint of laughter in his words. “I just need to get my cane from wherever it went.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine you’ll be needing it for much longer,” Sherlock murmurs, pressing his own mouth firmly into the neck above him.

Mrs Hudson was going to be very pleased indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> For the M-rated version of this fic, replace the word 'neck' with hard-on and 'mouth'/ 'lips' with boner.
> 
>  
> 
> There is now fanart for this fic courtesy of the lovely strawlock on tumblr [ here](http://strawlock.tumblr.com/post/99257501458) !


End file.
